"I'll be standing at the gate of Rockshire Orphanage at midnight tonight," said Karam to the man in a black suit and round glasses, taking notes beside him. He was the most human one—a nervous teenager, visibly smart but not sharing the stoic nature of the men in black suits. The man with a scar was behind, leading him as he walked down the brightly decorated hallway, the meeting room door behind.
"I'll have the sequence," he added in a factual manner, "I'll give you half the sequence; you give me the blue book. I'll verify it, and if it's to my satisfaction, I'll collect and get you the remaining sequence,"
"Sir," said the man, adjusting his glasses, "We've been instructed to stay there the whole process for assurance of the deal,"
"Fine", said Karam with a deep sigh. "I think it's only natural."
They climbed down the stairs and turned to a different hallway than the one he had come through while walking to the meeting room. He walked on the red carpet, the ebony doors on the side, vases and designer wall lights, chandeliers above lining the walls. They stopped at a door, and the scarred man opened it, turning the lights on.
The room was similar to the one he had walked out into from the elevator-type chamber when he came to the place. Lustrous, Victorian design—velvet blue sofa, ebony table, and a chandelier bright on the ceiling—just the placements were different. There was a bookshelf and vases in the corner.
The scarred man looked sharply at the man with glasses, and he shuddered, nervously walking out of the room, nodding, and closing the door behind.
Karam looked at him, pity in his eyes. He was different and apparently in the wrong place—a young, wimpy lad, while the rest were all behaviorally robotic.
It was the opposite of how he had come in. The scarred man pulled out a few books from the shelf halfway, and the shelf gave way, sliding to the side and revealing a metallic elevator door.
Karam stayed silent, a heavy quietness about him, like a quiet but alarming black cloud in the sky.
The man put in the body scans and codes, followed by Karam, and they stepped in, the door closing. It went on for a while before it stopped, and the doors opened yet again—to a metal vent-like tunnel with bar lights lining the corner.
They walked, the door closing behind them, a long walk for a few tens of minutes. The floor bent upwards, rising until they reached another metal wall, which lifted up.
They walked out into what looked like a run-down train tunnel. It was dark and damp, empty, with the afternoon sunlight barely lighting the place up from the two ends. The tracks were rusty, the wilderness covering the entire ground and a few feet of the cement walls. The cement cracked at some places, showing bricks; dark, wet patches and moss at others; grass and weeds growing through the cracks and gaps in the cement.
The air was heavy, and Karam noticed faded graffiti and open pipelines, a tap-tap-tap echoing at some distance. There were a few dropheads, high on drugs, lying here and there. They didn't even notice their arrival. He turned behind, and the metal tunnel was gone, replaced by a wall that blended in perfectly with the rest of the place.
"Hmm," Karam said, nodding his head, looking around. "Compliments to the architect."
The man didn't say anything, just started walking to one of the ends of the tunnel. Karam scoffed and followed. They walked out around the barricades, which read "Out of Use," in front of the tunnel, into sunlight, which hit Karam's eyes as he covered them, the guard standing there unfazed thanks to his black glasses.
When his eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight, he looked around. The wilderness followed the track outside as well, bushes and high grasses lining the way outside the tunnel, over and on both sides of the track. The ground rose behind the bushes on the right to a line of rusty guardrails, behind which was a road, a river on the other side of it.
The road was messy and seemed out of use for a while, with branches and leaves lying on it. It seemed he had reached a suburban city side away from the metro city with cars and buildings. Far beyond the river, houses and buildings were visible. The wind was hot and humid, damp with the smell of rotting wood and rain.
And on the left, behind the bushes, the ground rose to a dense forest with tall trees that stretched into oblivion.
"After 100 meters straight, there are steps on your right leading to the road. Through a gap in the railing, there's a car there. Climb up and get in. It will drop you back at the orphanage," said the scarred man in his usual robotic manner, like reading off a paper.
Karam sighed and scoffed, shaking his head, and raised his hand to the man and walked away, the man walking opposite, back into the tunnel.
He walked silently, hands in his pockets, the sun shining on his rough and sharp but gentle face, while looking around. The road was empty, which worked in favor of the people he was with just now and their secrecy because watching a man in a high-collar trench coat and another with black glasses and a suit come out of an out-of-use train tunnel would be suspicious, he thought.
He wondered—a few possibilities in his head.
Soon, he reached the stairs and looked up to his right. A black SUV stood there—the same one that came to pick him up—and by the door stood the same driver. He climbed up the mossy brick stairs through the gap in the railing, reaching the car. The driver opened the car, he went in silently, and the door closed.
Before entering, he had looked around—the river, the city beyond it, the road that curved around it.
He sat down.
The car drove off, the outside world invisible to him.
He closed his eyes.
*
Novaya Zemlya, Russia, one day ago.
The chopper headed to the helipad of the dark, enormous structure of a building that looked like a Soviet-era mining complex. It stood at the center of mountains and lands, covered deeply in white thanks to the extreme cold and raging snow.
The blades cut through the heavy snowstorm that covered the entire scene in white and icy cold. It was -30 degrees Celsius. The helipad was on top of a building that stood blurred but heavy, with the background of snow-covered mountains—a stark, strong-standing contrast in the cold, white land. The lights from it pierced through the dense blizzard, showing directions.
Novaya Zemlya was a frozen, isolated archipelago in the Arctic Ocean with permafrost-covered mountains and deep ice fields. Surrounded by steep cliffs and a frozen sea, it was impossible to land on without a strong Mi-8 AMIsh helicopter, guarding lights showing the directions, and a strong helipad marked by LED lights.
And on one of the small pieces of the cold white islands stood the dark fortress in a blanket of snow—the secret GRU Base-2.
The helipad was at the base of an upward-opening hangar, built firm and strong, designed to house the chopper when it landed.
The chopper hovered over the helipad and descended until it landed. As it touched down, the roof, massive thick steel plates of the advanced hangar closed above, blocking the snow outside.
Thermostats kicked on, turning the place warm and calm. The blades of the chopper slowed down, and General Zorin walked out, followed by men with guns and a woman in glasses carrying a suitcase and files.
There were a few other choppers on the side, a few missile heads, LED lights, and a large iron door which opened before a man in a black suit walked in, other guards in uniform and guns following.
"Генерал Зорин," (General Zorin,) he greeted with a professional smile, putting his hand out for a shake. "Добро пожаловать." (Welcome.)
He was the base commander of GRU Base-2, Colonel Mikhail Orlov.
"Орлов." (Orlov,) said Zorin with a smile, shaking his hand. He tapped his shoulder, and said "Как ты, сынок?" (How have you been, son?)
"Хорошо, сэр." (Fine, sir,) said Orlov. "И вы тоже выглядите отлично. Не стареете ни на день." (And you look fine too. Not a day old.)
"Седые волосы говорят об обратном." (The grey hair says otherwise,) said Zorin, shaking his head. Orlov sighed.
"Нам нужно идти." (We should be moving,) Orlov said, leading the way through the wide metal door. He walked, and Zorin followed. Behind them were the guards, the men, and the woman. The corridor was long, with numbered sections and red bulbs at intervals. Bar lights lined the ceiling. Their footsteps echoed in the solid cement walls with a metal framework.
"Мы получили отчеты." (We got the reports,) said Orlov in a serious tone. "Последовательность была украдена." (The sequence, it was stolen.)
"Карам Равин." (Karam Ravin,) said Zorin with a sigh. "Согласно тому, что сообщила Натали, он сбежал из тюрьмы строгого режима и исчез в снегах." (According to what Natalie reported, he broke out of high security and disappeared into ice.)
"На следующий день мы нашли его в Америке." (The next day, we found him in America,) Orlov added. "Я читал." (I read.)
"Это должно быть невозможно." (It should be impossible.)
"Ничего не невозможно для того, кто достаточно безумен, чтобы это сделать." (Nothing is impossible for someone crazy enough to do it,) said Zorin.
There was silence, only echoing footsteps. They reached an elevator and entered. As the shining steel doors closed and they started descending, Zorin said gravely:
"Он здесь?" (Is he here?)
There was a change in the atmosphere, it became tense. The guards shifted nervously despite their forced tough presentation, and Orlov adjusted his tie.
"Он..." (He...) Orlov hesitated. "Он уже здесь." (He is already here.)
Zorin sighed heavily, holding his temples. The horrors from a few years ago flashed before his eyes. He shook them off.
"Сэр..." (Sir...) muttered Natalie, head low, tense. "Нет ли другого способа, кроме как просить его?" (Is there no other way but to ask... him?)
"Нет." (No,) said Zorin, shaking his head. "Он единственный, кто может сделать это эффективно." (He's the only one who can efficiently do it.) "К сожалению, он нам нужен." (We, unfortunately, need him.)
The elevator stopped, and the metal doors opened, the corridor ahead leading to the room where he sat. The atmosphere in the corridor was dense, malevolent, like they led to the doors of hell, Satan sitting inside.
There was hesitation before Zorin— the only one not nervous—stepped out and said:
"Я пойду один." (I will go alone.)
"Но сэр-" (But sir-)
"Это приказ" (It's an order) cut in Zorin as Orlov started to speak, "Иди назад." -sigh- "Я поговорю с ним." ("Go back" -sigh- "I will talk to him"
Orlov nodded. Natali looked concerned, and the doors closed. Zorin adjusted his tie and walked forward against the heavy atmosphere, unfazed but serious, a gravity about him. He reached the door, put his hand on the knob, and turned it, stepping in.
The room was dimly lit with a bar light above, cement walls, and a table in the center. Two heavily muscular men in suits, huge as bears, stood at two corners of the room like statues.
On the table was a file, a few papers, a glass of water, and a plate of watermelon slices.
Zorin got in. he air was heavy. There was an overwhelming aura—one that would crush any commoner who knew the man sitting at the table.
And there he was, sitting comfortably, feet on the table, munching down watermelons with a spoon while reading one of the papers. He was comparatively lean, his curly hair and he wore glasses. Thinly shaved beard, and a smirk on his face—he didn't bother to put his feet down or even look at the commander as he entered, he just scoffed to himself.
His name was Major Ivan Vladimirovich Volkov, the leader of Black storm. He seemed physically unremarkable compared to other soldiers, but he was what you would call a monster.
Zorin pulled a chair and sat down with a heavy sigh. He cleared his throat and said, "Волков?" (Volkov?)